


A Blind, Lucky Disaster

by raeldaza



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (of exr), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blind Date, Established Relationship, First Dates, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-14 10:17:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4560795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raeldaza/pseuds/raeldaza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras decides to set up two of his closest friends on a blind date. It goes badly, and then badly again, and then very bad, and then bad again - and even though both men truly liked each other, there's no way the other is interested after that - right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Blind, Lucky Disaster

**Author's Note:**

  * For [infinite_mirrors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/infinite_mirrors/gifts).



The buzzer for the banana bread is a minute and a half away from ringing when Grantaire notices that someone has been suspiciously absent in the two and a half hours he’s been fucking around at Enjolras’ apartment.

“Where’s Combeferre?” Grantaire asks, craning his head to look into the living room. “I don’t know if I've ever been here when he’s out.”

Enjolras frowns, and looks around the empty apartment.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I didn’t hear him leave. Let me check his room.”

He disentangles himself from where he was wrapped around Grantaire, and heads towards the small hallway that leads to his roommate’s bedroom.

“’Ferre?” He stops in front of his door, and gives a short knock. “You in?”

“Yeah, come in,” he hears. He turns the knob several times, making a mental note to get the damn doorknob fixed, and then promptly startles. Combeferre’s sitting on the ground, surrounded by dozens of meter high piles of books.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Rearranging my books by color. Did you know that a lot of med textbooks are blue?”

“No,” Enjolras states, eyes wide. “I distinctly remember you rearranging these last weekend by title.”

“Yeah,” Combeferre shrugs. “Thought it could be redone.”

“Do you really have books memorized by the cover color?” Enjolras asks, leaning up against the doorframe. “How are you going to find the one you need?”

Combeferre shrugs again, and looks around at the piles of books. His glasses slip slightly down his nose, and he accidentally smacks himself slightly trying to push them up, making Enjolras stifle a smile.

“Well, it’s mostly just for appearance. I can always rearrange them next weekend if I truly am struggling to find what I want.”

“You’re really going to rearrange all 400 of your books next weekend? Again?”

“I have no other plans,” he says, beginning to sift through books once again. “So why not?”

Personally, Enjolras can think of several reasons why not, but they’re all basically some variation of _anything sounds more productive and more enjoyable,_ so he decides to keep quiet.

“Well.” Enjolras sighs, biting his lip. “Well, if you want it, there’s homemade banana bread coming out of the oven in a few minutes. If you need us, we’ll be in the kitchen. If you want help, we’re available.”

“Thanks Enjolras,” Combeferre says, not looking up. “Shut the door on your way out, okay?”

Enjolras nods, and backs his way out of the room. He makes his way back to Grantaire, who invites him back with open arms. He settles his back against Grantaire’s chest, his arms sneaking around Enjolras torso, and his chin latches over his shoulder. Enjolras reaches his own hands up, holding onto Grantaire’s arms around him.

“I take it he’s here?”

“Yes, rearranging his books.”

He feels Grantaire frown against his shoulder.

“Didn’t he do that last weekend?”

“Yes,” Enjolras sighs. “He did.”

“Hm,” Grantaire hums. He kisses Enjolras’ neck slightly, which Enjolras refuses to let himself be distracted by.

“Do you think you could maybe get him into a hobby? You have so many; is there any he might be interested in? Just to get him out of the apartment?”

“Why do you want him out of the apartment?” Grantaire asks, kissing his neck again. Enjolras turns a warm shade of red, but forces himself to stay focused on the topic.

“I just want him happy, and I think getting him out would do him some good. What do you think – maybe ballroom dancing? Or possibly boxing?”

“Maybe,” Grantaire answers, just as the buzzer for the bread dings. “I’ll think about which would suit him and get back to you.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras says, turning towards Grantaire, and kissing him lightly. “Let’s eat.” 

* * *

“Enjolras,” a voice says, his name accompanied by a short knock.

Enjolras looks up from his desk.

“Oh, Courfeyrac,” he says, surprised. “Come in.”

Courfeyrac steps inside his office, and Enjolras takes a moment to look him up and down. His hair is bushier than usual, which means he probably hasn’t been taking the time to gel it in the morning; his suit is slightly rumpled, which Enjolras has honestly never seen from him; he also has a straight black tie in place of where there usually is a patterned bowtie. In short, it’s all the Courfeyrac signs of moping.

“I’ve got those case files. Do you have time to read them now?”

“Sure, you can read them with me,” Enjolras says, gesturing to a chair across from him. “I was just about to order lunch. What would you like?”

“Whatever,” Courfeyrac shrugs, before plopping down in the office chair, which lurches slightly from his weight.

“McDonalds?” Enjolras asks, just to appraise how upset he truly is.

“If it makes you happy,” Courfeyrac says, opening up the files.

Enjolras sighs.      

* * *

They’re halfway through their Thai food (Courfeyrac’s favorite – so Enjolras cares about his friends and wants them happy, sue him), Courfeyrac’s still picking at it with his fork, and Enjolras has had enough.

“Okay, really, it’s been three weeks,” Enjolras says, trying not to snap. Courfeyrac’s head startles up, surprised.

“What?”

“Marius moving out. It’s been three weeks. You need to move on.”

“I didn’t say anything!” Courfeyrac says defensively.

“I could hear you thinking it.”

“Oh, shut up,” Courfeyrac says, hunching back in on himself. “I’m allowed to be upset.”

“I suppose,” Enjolras says, trying to suppress the urge to rub his temples. Privately, he has many feelings about Marius being gone, and few of them are on the _disappointed_ emotional range. “But you can’t mope forever.”

“He was my best friend,” Courfeyrac mumbles. “He was my roommate for two years, and my closest confidant, and my almost-boyfriend, and now he’s living with some random girl I’ve never even met. And not even with her – with her and her father.”

“He never even paid you rent,” Enjolras reminds him. “He also was _not_ your almost boyfriend.”

“I didn’t ask for rent!” Courfeyrac pulls his feet down from where they were lounged on the table. “And he maybe could have been, if he ever noticed that I held a little torch for him.”

Enjolras is quite glad Marius was incredibly oblivious and never noticed Courfeyrac’s little harbored crush, because who knows what would have come of that.

“You have your apartment to yourself again.” Enjolras runs his fingers through his hair. “And Marius is happy with the apparent love of his life. You should be happy for him and for yourself.”

“No,” Courfeyrac says, making Enjolras growl slightly.

“I want you to be _happy,”_ Enjolras snarls. “Why is that so hard for you?”

“I’ve literally always been happy since you met me, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac sighs. “Give me this month.”

Enjolras clenches his teeth, but looks back down at the case file, reminding himself to be quiet.

* * *

“So, I’ve been thinking about your two little social problems,” Grantaire says, about a quarter of the way through _Tangled._ They’re at the part where they’re all singing at the snuggling duckling bar, and Enjolras makes sure to pause it, not wanting to miss the section with the piano playing man with the hook; it’s his favorite character.

“What two social problems?” Enjolras asks.

“The isolated roommate and the maudlin coworker.”

“Ah,” Enjolras says. “Any solutions?”

“Actually, yes,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras sits up squarely, looking him in the face.

“Really?”

“Yeah, and I’m thinking it’ll kill two birds with one stone.”

“Oh no,” Enjolras sighs, closing his eyes.

“Blind date,” Grantaire offers, which makes Enjolras sigh again. “No, hear me out – on a superficial level, it’s a good idea. Combeferre is secluded here because he has nowhere else to go; a boyfriend would solve that. Courfeyrac is mopey because he’s lonely and the guy he liked didn’t like him back; a boyfriend would make him less lonely, and the best way to get over someone is to find someone new.”

“Yeah, but—” Enjolras starts.

“Shh,” Grantaire says, putting two fingers to Enjolras lips. “I’m not done. On a non-superficial level, I think they’d get along great. Courfeyrac would make a great complement to Combeferre; he’s kind, playful, extroverted, idealistic, passionate, lovely, and cute to boot. Don’t you think that’d work well with kind, subdued, introverted, idealistic, passionate, lovely, and hot Combeferre?”

“I don’t know,” Enjolras hedges. “Maybe?”

“And plus, it’d be your two closest friends meeting. That might be nice, to be able to be with them both at the same time.”

“Huh,” Enjolras says thoughtfully. “Yeah, maybe.”

“Plus, it’s those two. They’re two of the most forgiving, easy going, kind people I know. What’s the worst that can happen?”

 _Famous last words,_ Enjolras doesn’t say. Because truly, it does seem like a good recipe.

“Okay,” Enjolras agrees, lying back down. He grabs to remote and presses play, watching Flynn dance around and sing about wanting piles of money. “Okay.”

* * *

“So, Combeferre,” Enjolras starts, not looking up from where he’s typing on his laptop. Combeferre makes a vague answering noise. “Are you free next Friday?”

“What did you have in mind?” Combeferre asks, which is annoying, because it takes away Enjolras super smooth segue of _good, then you have no excuse not to date my friend_.

“Dinner, at that French place on main Grantaire is always yapping about.”

“I have been interested in that,” Combeferre says, and Enjolras does a mental fist bump.

“Want to make plans, then?”

“Sure,” Combeferre agrees.

“Fantastic, I’ll have Courfeyrac meet you there at six,” Enjolras says quickly, and valiantly ignores the heavy stare into the side of his head.

“I’ll do what now?” he asks, after a long, filled moment.

“Meet Courfeyrac? My coworker at the law firm? I know I’ve mentioned him.”

“And why am I meeting him there?”

“’Cause,” Enjolras evades. At Combeferre’s unamused, blank stare, Enjolras caves. “Because he’s my friend and you’re my friend and I think you’d really like each other, and because yesterday you decided to Windex the entire apartment, and I think it may do you good to get out.”

“The apartment was dusty,” Combeferre tries weakly.

“Please, Combeferre. One date. You’d like each other.” Combeferre just sighs, which Enjolras takes to mean as a yes.

* * *

“Courfeyrac, would you go on a date with my friend?”

“Sure,” Courfeyrac agrees, not looking up from his case file. “When?”

“Friday at six, at that French place?”

“Okay.”

Sometimes, Enjolras really, really loves Courfeyrac.

* * *

“How did I let you talk me into this?” Combeferre mumbles, picking up another shirt from his closet.

“Because he’s a good guy and it’ll be good for you,” Enjolras says. “And don’t wear that – it makes you look like a librarian.”

Combeferre levels him with a cold, icy stare. “I _like_ looking like a librarian.”

Enjolras is about to respond, but his phone rings in his pocket, so he just gives a pointed look, and answers it.

“What’s up?”

“I have a slight problem,” Courfeyrac says on the other line. Enjolras immediately exits the room, leaving Combeferre to pick his own wardrobe.

“What is it?” Enjolras asks, worried.

“So you know how Marius and I played pranks on each other, but he was really bad at it, and they were always extremely lame or extremely unpleasant?”

“Yeah.”

“So I found what was probably his last one. He may have put glue in my hair gel,” Courfeyrac says, making Enjolras simultaneously wince and curse Marius.

“Are you okay?” Enjolras asks. “Is your _head_ okay?”

“Yeah, head’s fine.” There’s a slight pause. “My hair is less okay.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m at the hairdressers now. Is there any way to postpone the date?”

“Well,” Enjolras says, leaning up against the wall. “Possibly, but I’d worry slightly that Combeferre would take it as a sign and never reschedule. He was quite worried about this.”

“Could we maybe just delay the date an hour?”

“Sure,” Enjolras agrees immediately. “I doubt that’d be a problem.”

“Okay, let him know I’m sorry.”

“Of course. And I’m sorry about your hair. What’s going to happen to it?” Enjolras winces slightly at the slightly watery, desperate laugh Courfeyrac gives.

“Well, I’m fairly confident I’ll still have some hair by the end of it.” Given the fact of how much pride Courfeyrac gives in his unruly curls, Enjolras knows just how much of a blow this is for him.

“Marius is a moron.”

“He was just trying to play along.”

“Moron,” Enjolras repeats. “Hold on, there’s a knock at the door.”

“No, I’ll just go,” Courfeyrac says. “My hairdresser just called me over anyway. Just let him know the hour delay, okay?”

“Yep,” Enjolras says. “Good luck with the hair.”

The door turns out to be his downstairs neighbor, screaming about how Enjolras’ sink is leaking into his apartment. He’s immediately pulled down to his landlord’s office, and by the time it’s been properly dealt with, Combeferre’s already left, and the time of his date is the last thing on Enjolras mind. 

* * *

Combeferre’s been waiting for 26 minutes, and he’s getting quite close to assuming he’s been stood up, walking out the door and over to the much cheaper and much more desirable ice cream shop next door, getting a cone, and going home to Netflix and probably a couple of tears.

 _Enjolras never would be stood up,_ he thinks bitterly, taking a sip of his water. He’s been trying to conserve it so he doesn’t look too pathetic, but he’s already down to the ice, and he’s pretty sure getting the sever to not pity him is a lost cause.

Sighing, he checks his phone, which is still quiet with no new messages. He doesn’t even have Courfeyrac’s number, so he can’t even figure out if it’s all been a misunderstanding, if there’s been some trouble, or if Courfeyrac is just a master of disguise and is actually a massive dick and not the sweetheart Enjolras swore him to be.

He flips his phone over a few times in his hands, before sighing and dialing Enjolras number.

It rings three times before there’s an answer.

“What’s wrong?” Enjorlas says immediately. “You should be into your date, not calling me.”

“Maybe I would be,” Combeferre says, trying not to let his annoyance seep through his tone. “If he were _here._ ”

There’s a long, significant silence on Enjolras’ end, and Combeferre first thinks he’s probably trying to come up with a defense of his friend, but that is shattered when Enjolras breathes,

“Oh _shit_.”

“What?”

“He called me, and he said he was going to be delayed an hour, and asked me to tell you. With the shit with the landlord I forgot to tell you. This is my fault. I’m so sorry, Combeferre.”

“It’s okay,” Combeferre sighs. And it is – it was an accident, even if it did turn out to be a slightly humiliating one for him. “I’ll walk around town a bit, come back in a half hour.”

“I’m so sorry,” Enjolras repeats. “I really am.”

“It’s fine,” Combeferre says, a bit shortly. “Talk to you later.” He hangs up, flags down his waitress.

“I’m sorry, miss, but turns out I am a half hour early. Do you mind if I leave for a bit?”

“Your table may not still be here,” the waitress says, tapping her pen on her paper.

“That’s fine,” Combeferre says, looking around the nearly empty restaurant. He can’t quite believe he had to make reservations for this place.

“Okay. Let me get you your bill.”

“I only had water,” Combeferre says, baffled.

“But it was bottled water,” she explains. “Or it was, before I poured it into your glass. It’s 2.50.”

“I only have a credit card,” he says lamely.

“Then use it,” she sniffs, and he silently wonders how rude it’d be to give her a 1% tip.

* * *

“Oh, monsieur, please don’t cry, please don’t cry—” the hairdresser says helplessly, obviously out of his depth. “I tried my best—”

“It’s not your fault,” Courfeyrac hiccups. “You did what you could.”

It’s not shorn, but it’s cropped close to his head, shorter than he’s had it in a decade, since an unfortunate middle school bowl cut his mom insisted on. It doesn’t necessarily look _bad,_ but it most certainly isn’t what he’s comfortable with, and _definitely_ isn’t what he wants to go on a date looking like. It has that ugly, fresh cut appearance to it, and he knows he’s going to be self consciously touching it all night.

“I’m so sorry monsieur,” the man says again, and Courfeyrac waves him off.

“You did well,” he says, choking back the last of his tears. “How much was it again?”

“Well, for all the labor of getting the glue out, and the special shampoo, and the cut, and the—”

Courfeyrac’s suddenly quite glad he brought his card, and not just the wad of cash he was sure would enough for dinner that night. 

* * *

As Combeferre feels his socks squelch, he is seriously regretting the move to walk around town. He is apparently incapable of checking the weather, because in the last ten minutes, it’s moved from slightly cloudy to a torrential downpour. He’s huddled underneath a balcony of a furniture store, right across the street from the restaurant. His socks are soaked, his hair is lying in his face, and his undershirt is almost see through. He’s immensely glad he didn’t take Enjolras’ advice and take off the sweater vest, or else his bare chest would practically be on display.

He’s wet and uncomfortable and bordering on completely miserable, and as he darts across the street, he’s really hoping Courfeyrac’s cheery enough to brighten his day.

* * *

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck,_ ” Combeferre hears. He turns, trying to place the sound, and catches sight of a young man stumbling across the sidewalk towards him, with red shoes and a yellow umbrella.

It takes him several moments to place, and he starts when he realizes this man is supposed to be his date.

He is quite handsome, Combeferre realizes with a lurch, with his bright green eyes, slight build, and well-dressed body. His hair looks slightly off – Combeferre can’t tell why, but it seems distinctly odd to him, and more importantly, he has a look of absolute pain on his face.

“Are you okay?” he asks, concerned.

“Peachy,” Courfeyrac snaps, not looking up, making Combeferre reel back in shock. “I’m just late for a date, my hair is still sticky, and now I stepped in sidewalk hole on accident and twisted my ankle, and it’s throbbing, and my $100 shoe has a rip in it, and I can barely walk, and I’m late for my first date in months.” He sighs heavily.

“Well, you’re here now,” Combeferre says. “Nice to meet you.” At this Courfeyrac’s head snaps up, and his face abruptly darkens two shades.

“Oh my God, I didn’t realize that was you,” he blurts. “I thought I was complaining to a stranger.”

“You were,” Combeferre says. “Just a stranger that’s your date.”

“Nghh,” Courfeyrac not says, horrified.

“Sorry about your foot,” Combeferre says, pointing at it. “Looks painful.”

“Yeah,” Courfeyrac chokes out, humiliated, but glad Combeferre’s taking it so well. “Let’s go eat.” Combeferre offers his arm, which Courfeyrac finds slightly endearing. They hobble into the restaurant.

* * *

“What happened? A half hour ago this place was empty!” Combeferre asks the host, trying not to whine.

“The dinner rush,” he says, nose in the air. What is with it and this place and their snobbery? Is it on the application – must be rude to customers to be hired?

“We had a reservation,” Courfeyrac tries.

“For an hour ago,” the host points out, which is probably fair.

“How long for a seat?” Combeferre asks.

“Forty minutes,” the host guesses.

“Do you want to go somewhere else?” Combeferre asks, turning to Courfeyrac, who shrugs.

“Well, my foot hurts, and I’m not sure I actually can walk elsewhere. I don’t mind waiting if you don’t.”

“Okay,” Combeferre agrees easily, which makes Courfeyrac sigh in relief. “We’ll wait.”

“Fantastic,” the host deadpans. “Take a seat.”

“Thank you,” Courfeyrac says, completely sincerely, which makes Combeferre shoot him a small grin.

* * *

“Well, we can do some of the first date stuff now,” Courfeyrac suggests, as they are waiting on a bench in the lobby.

“You mean get to know you questions?” Combeferre says, pushing up his glasses.

“Sure,” Courfeyrac agrees. “Let’s start – why this place?”

It’s not _bad,_ per se, but it’s not anywhere Courfeyrac would have chosen. There’s low hanging fairy lights on the ceiling, and they cast a dim, yellow glow around the room. The walls are all white, which helps reflect the little bulbs. There’s black paneling on all the windows, and all the tables and chairs are black as well. It’s minimalistic and clean, and looks like it costs a good healthy paycheck. It’s, to say, fancy. Which isn’t necessarily a problem – it’s just that Courfeyrac is Italian, and the portion sizes of expensive French restaurants tend not to quite fill him.

“I didn’t pick it,” Combeferre says. “Grantaire chose it. Says he knows the owner.”

“Did he give you coupon?” Courfeyrac asks, possibly slightly too eager.

“This place doesn’t really look like a coupon place,” Combeferre says slowly, which instantly makes Courfeyrac flush in embarrassment.

“Yes, true.”

A slightly stilted silence falls, and they both fiddle awkwardly with their ties.

“What happened to your shoe?” Combeferre asks finally.

“Oh, when I stepped into the hole, it got stuck. I tried to yank it out, and it got caught on the rock, and tore a hole.”

“Shame,” Combeferre says.

“Oh yes,” Courfeyrac agrees solemnly, making Combeferre chuckle. “It’s an expensive shoe. You know anything about fashion?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh,” Courfeyrac flounders slightly. “Well, let me show you why these are expensive.” He reaches down and unties the Dr. Marten, and pulls it onto his lap. Combeferre leans in, interested.

“Okay, look at the—”

“ _Sir,_ ” an angry voice exclaims. Both men look up. “You _cannot_ have your shoe off in a place of dining. This is a professional establishment. Put it back on or I will be forced to escort you out.” It’s the same host, and Courfeyrac can’t help flushing horribly, embarrassed. What was he thinking, taking off his shoe in a restaurant?

“Right, of course,” he mumbles, leaning down to put it back on.

“It’s okay,” Combeferre whispers to him. “You can tell me later.” He slips an arm around Courfeyrac’s shoulders, trying to have a gesture of solidarity. Courfeyrac squirms uncomfortably.

“Your jacket, uh, is quite wet from the rain,” he says, making Combeferre flinch back suddenly.

“Shit, sorry,” he says, flushing red.

“It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine,” he rushes. “No biggie.”

“Sorry,” Combeferre repeats, looking down at his fingers. “Sorry.”

They stay quiet after that.

* * *

“Sirs, your seats are ready,” the host says, and they both stand to follow him. With a slight queasiness, Combeferre can see he was placed back in his old waitresses’ section.

The take a seat, Combeferre squelching slightly with water, and Courfeyrac almost tripping into his from his foot hurting. They both grab the menu, and even though Combeferre’s a doctor and Courfeyrac’s a lawyer, they both wince slightly at the price.

“Grantaire works at a kindergarten. You said he eats here?” Courfeyrac asks.

“He says he eats here for free, because he knows the owner. He just vouched for the food. If it’s too expensive—”

“It’s fine,” Courfeyrac cuts him off. “It’s fine. With how long it took to seat us, I just want to eat.”

They scan the menu for a few minutes, before the waitress comes to their table. She looks just as bored as last time.

“Finally got a date,” she says to Combeferre, who flushes. Courfeyrac frowns at her.

“I’ll have a water,” Combeferre mumbles. “And the Foie Gras,” he orders with perfect pronunciation.

“A coffee,” Courfeyrac orders, squinting at the menu. “And a, uh, Tartiflette Savoyarde,” he tries.

“That is _not_ how that is pronounced,” the waitress snaps. It’s the _Tartiflette Savoyarde._ ” The words roll off her tongue perfectly, in a way Courfeyrac couldn’t begin to replicate.

“Oh, I apologize for growing up in Italy and not learning how to pronounce overpriced French foods. Obviously this was a massive oversight,” he bites back. The waitress grunts and turns away, and suddenly Courfeyrac remembers he’s on a date.

“Oh my God, I did not mean to get snippy in front of you, that was _so_ rude and _such_ a bad impression, I _swear_ I am not usually—”

“It’s fine,” Combeferre cuts off, smiling. “Good on you for standing up for yourself. I can’t usually do that. I just get super passive aggressive, like put the plate just a perfectly awkward length away from the end of the table.”

Courfeyrac snorts.

“I hope you’re not like that to most of your waiters,” Courfeyrac says.

“Oh God no,” Combeferre says quickly, taking a drink of his water. “I’m a little too nice. I usually tip like 60% if I can. I worked as a waiter in a diner during college – I know how awful it is. But that also means I know when a waiter is just having a shitty day, and when they’re actually just a shitty waiter.” He points subtly to their waitress.

“I bet you have some stories of bad customers. I worked as a cashier for three years – I know I have mine.”

“Oh yeah,” Combeferre says, and it’s the start of a long conversation.

* * *

By the time the food comes, Courfeyrac is feeling quite warm, somewhere in the general vicinity of his chest, and Combeferre’s stomach feels full of butterflies, making him shift every few seconds and uncontrollably smile at his lap.

“Here’s your Tartiflette Savoyarde,” the waitress says, enunciating the words a little too much to be coincidental. “And your Foie Gras. Enjoy.”

She turns away a little too fast, because a man coming back from the bathroom has to swerve to avoid her. Unfortunately, he swerves right into their table, pushing Combeferre’s plate right into his lap, upside down. He jumps up, and all Courfeyrac can do is stare at Combeferre in shock.

“I’m so sorry,” the man says, and Combeferre just waves it off.

“Not your fault,” he swallows. “Not at all.”

“I’ll have them start your dish again,” the waitress says, moving towards the kitchen.

“Don’t bother.” Combeferre waves his hand. “That took fifty minutes, it’s not worth it.” The waitress nods curtly.

“I’ll have it taken off your bill. The bathroom is down the hall, on the left.” She points, and then heads back the way she came.

“I’m gonna—” He points to the bathroom. Courfeyrac nods, still slightly shocked.

It takes him a good ten minutes to clean himself up, and his pants are still stained by the time he’s got back. By the looks of it, it doesn’t seem like Courfeyac’s started his meal.

“You okay?” he asks as Combeferre sits down.

“Yep.” He crosses his legs, hoping to hide the duck stain. “Go ahead and eat.”

“You can have half mine,” Courfeyrac offers.

“I would, but I’m actually allergic to onions.” Courfeyrac looks down, and yes, there are some tiny white things in there.

“Oh,” he says. “You could have said something. I shouldn’t eat something you’re allergic to during a date.”

“Why?” Combeferre asks dumbly.

“In case we kiss I don’t want you going into anaphylactic shock?” Courfeyrac says slowly.

“I wasn’t really expecting kissing,” Combeferre says, face heating.

Courfeyrac winces slightly at himself. “Of course, we don’t have to do that. Not at all.”

“You can eat,” Combeferre says again.

“You shouldn’t have to watch me eat,” Courfeyrac says.

“No, go ahead, really. One of us should enjoy it.”

Courfeyrac tries to, he really does, but it’s incredibly awkward to be the only one eating, while Combeferre looks on, watching him. To make it worse, he can hear Combeferre’s stomach, so he’s obviously hungry.

“Waitress,” Courfeyrac calls, giving up after about five minutes. She comes over. “Can you have this boxed for me? I’m done.”

“We don’t box food here, sir,” she says, pointed. “Having it after the fact makes it lose all its flavor.”

“Yeah, okay,” he says, giving up. “The bill then.” She walks off, and he spends a second surreptitiously looking around the restaurant, before placing his hunk of food in a napkin and shoving it into the little bag hanging off his umbrella. He hears Combeferre snort, and he looks up to give him a grin.

“Here you are, sirs,” the waitress says. She eyes his empty plate suspiciously, but doesn’t comment.

Combeferre reaches for the bill, and almost does a double take at the price. There are words to be had with Grantaire. He leaves his card in and hands it off to a waiter. He only has to wait around minute before it is returned to him.

“Sir, your card was declined.”

“What?” Combeferre says blankly. “I used it here literally about two hours ago, waiting for him. I know it works.”

“Sorry sir,” the man says, not offering any other explanation.

“I don’t have other payment,” Combeferre says, desperate. “Try it again?”

“I got it,” Courfeyrac interjects, giving the man his card. The waiter turns, and Combeferre is about as humiliated as he’s ever been in his life.

“I swear, I just used it _here,_ I have money, I have no idea—”

“It’s chill,” Courfeyrac interrupts. “Really. I’ll just charge it to Enjolras’ work lunch fund. I doubt he’ll notice, with how little he goes out.”

Combeferre smiles weakly at him.

* * *

“Well, thank you for a lovely evening,” Combeferre says, as they walk side by side towards the curb of the road.

“Was it?” Courfeyrac asks wanly.

“Sure,” Combeferre replies, which doesn’t really make Courfeyrac feel any better. Combeferre raises his hand to hail a taxi, but underestimates how close Courfeyrac was to him, and accidentally slaps his face, hard.

“Oh shit,” Courfeyrac says, bending over, clutching his nose.

“Oh _shit,_ ” Combeferre repeats, horrified. “Are you alright?”

“Sure,” Courfeyrac says, sounding muffled by holding his nose shut. “I think it’s not bleeding.”

“I’m so sorry,” Combeferre says. “Let me look at it; I’m a doctor. Here, take your hand off.” Gently, he removes Courfeyrac’s hand from his nose. It looks slightly red, but otherwise, fine.

“Is it okay?” Courfeyrac asks, wrinkling his nose. It still hurts like a bitch.

“Yeah, I think it was just a superficial hit. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Courfeyrac sighs, and throws his hand up, hailing a taxi that just pulled around the bend. As it drives up, he turns to Combeferre.

“Well, tell Enjolras I said hi,” he says.

“Okay,” Combeferre mumbles, looking at his feet. “Sorry about the nose. And the restaurant wait. And the food thing. And—”

“You know what? It’s okay.” Courfeyrac says quickly.

“Okay,” Combeferre mutters.

Courfeyrac finds that he actually quite liked Combeferre. He’s handsome, nice, and sweet in an almost old fashioned way. He’s appreciative of his humor, tells good stories, and is quiet in that controlled, precise way. He treated everyone well tonight, despite all the troubles they gave him, and managed to keep an even head. Even more, though, there’s chemistry there, a drawing towards him that he can’t quite explain – an interest by inclination rather than lust.

At the same time, though, in truth, it’s been possibly the worst date he’s been on in his life, and definitely the most embarrassing – he was late, he complained loudly to him, his hair is a mess, he took off his shoe in a restaurant, Combeferre didn’t get to eat, and he paid an exorbitant amount of money for bad service and half a meal.

He waits to see if Combeferre asks him out again, and when he just shakes his hand, gives him a smile and jumps in the cab, Courfeyrac lets himself be severely disappointed for several moments. He sighs heavily to himself, turning to walk home, and not even bothering to miss the puddles.

* * *

“Hey, I think that’s him,” Enjolras says, abruptly sitting up from where he was laid on top of Grantaire. He glances at the clock. “They were gone for about two hours; is that a good sign?”

“I guess it depends,” Grantaire says. They both sit up and watch the door. They hear the door unlock, and there’s Combeferre bumbling through it.

“How’d it go?” Enjolras demands the second he walks in.

Combeferre glances up, startled, before shrugging and moving in to close the door. Enjolras feels his stomach drop.

“Really? What happened?”

“It was basically one right after another humiliating experiences for me.”

“What happened?” Grantaire says, watching Combeferre toe off his shoes. Combeferre then walks over to an armchair, where he collapses into it, and retells the story. By the end of it, his face is buried in his hands, Enjolras is grimacing, and Grantaire is snuffing out his laughter.

“And then I hit him in the _face_ when hailing a cab, and almost broke his nose.”

“God,” Enjolras breathes. “Did it really just go badly for you? We’re you the only one who did anything wrong?”

“Yes,” Combeferre says miserably. “He was perfect.”

Enjolras and Grantaire share looks.

“Are you going to see him again?” Grantaire asks.

“What?” Combeferre asks incredulously. “He’s never going to want to see me again. Did you listen at all?”

“Courfeyrac’s a nice guy,” Enjolras tries, but Combeferre is waving him off.

“I know he was. He was great and I am humiliated, so that’s going to be the end of it. I’m going to go take a shower.”

* * *

“I have a bone to pick with you,” Courfeyrac says the moment he walks in the office. Enjolras quickly swallows the muffin he was chewing, almost choking himself.

“What?”

“Why did you never introduce me to Combeferre before? Why did it have to be last night?”

“Uh,” Enjolras says. “I don’t know?”

“He’s exactly my type. Smart and sweet and cool, and did you see his sweater vest? I swear I swooned.” Enjolras feels his heart pick up a little.

“Does that mean you’re going to ask him out again?” he asks, excited.

“Oh fuck no,” Courfeyrac says, sitting down. “I _humiliated_ myself last night. It was a complete disaster. I doubt he ever wants to see me again. If he still likes me after all that, God bless him, I’ll be pleasantly surprised, but it’s in his court.”

“I don’t know if that’s a great idea,” Enjolras starts, and abruptly stops when Courfeyrac’s face falls.

“He didn’t like me, then,” Courfeyrac says, voice full of false levity. “Okay then, that’s fine, let’s ignore that ever happened.”

“Look, Courfeyrac—”

“Look, muffins,” he interrupts, and Enjolras sighs, and decides that’s enough for the moment.

* * *

“Enjolras! Come here!”

Enjolras jumps off his bed, and hurries down to Combeferre’s room, bursting through the door. He abruptly stops when he sees Combeferre standing in the middle of the room, looking perfectly normal.

“Jesus, what?”

“I made a book pyramid!” Combeferre gestures over to the middle of the room, where about 80% of his books are currently in a floor-to-ceiling pyramid that looks remarkably steady; he should have considered engineering.

“Nice,” Enjolras says, and makes a mental note to beg Courfeyrac to call Combeferre.

* * *

“You should call Combeferre,” Enjolras says about fifteen minutes in their lunch. Courfeyrac’s head snaps up comically fast.

“Did he say something about me?”

“You liked him,” Enjolras evades, making Courfeyrac’s expression droop. “Just suck it up and call him.”

“He would call me if he was interested,” Courfeyrac says.

“I don’t think he would. He’s remarkably not demonstrative about what he wants. Plus, he did hit you in the face.”

“I forgave him for that.”

“Please, Courfeyrac, I’m tired of watching you mope miserably. First Marius, now this.”

“I’m not miserable,” he mutters miserably, face downcast in misery.

Enjolras groans.

* * *

“Subterfuge,” Grantaire says, and it’s a testament to how tired Enjolras is of his friends that he immediately agrees.

* * *

“Coming,” Combeferre yells towards the knocker at the door. He opens it, and can’t help dropping his spoon in shock.

“Oh,” Courfeyrac says, hand still rose from knocking. “Hey.”

“Enjolras isn’t here,” Combeferre says after an awkward few seconds of silence.

“He invited me over for tacos,” Courfeyrac says, uncomfortable. “I can just go.”

“He’s out with Grantaire on a date.”

“Probably just forgot I was coming,” Courfeyrac guesses, which Combeferre sincerely doubts.

“He bought about thirty tacos for me for lunch. He said they were having a sale.” Combeferre should have known better than to believe him; what place has a 30 tacos for $30 sale? “You could have some, if you like.”

“Sure, I guess,” Courfeyrac says, sliding in. “If you don’t mind me being here?”

“Not at all!” Combeferre hurries, running a hand through his hair. He’s suddenly really wishing he'd changed out of his threadbare t-shirt. “Please, make yourself at home.”

“Is that a Battlestar Galactica poster?” Courfeyrac moves into the room, dropping his jacket on the couch. He stands under the poster, grinning.

“Yes, do you like it?”

“Is my family hominidae, genus homo, and species sapiens? _Yes._ ”

At that, Combeferre can’t help slamming the door shut, nor the excited bounce in his step as he goes to meet Courfeyrac halfway. 

* * *

“Do you think they’re fucking yet?"

“Don’t be crude,” Enjolras says, unlocking the door.

“We gave them three hours, that should be good enough, right?”

Enjolras rolls his eyes at Grantaire, and opens the door. Immediately, he turns around, and swiftly recloses the door, locking it.

“We’re going to yours,” Enjolras says, bright red.

“I was right, wasn’t I?” Grantaire asks smugly.

“You were close enough.”

“I have the best ideas.” Enjolras smiles, and grabs his hand.

“Despite the unneeded visuals, yes, you really do.” And hand in hand, they walk back out the apartment, leaving his own quite well occupied.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly thought about making the date even worse, but I wanted some note of realism. And someday I'll go back to writing something other than pointless fluff. Eventually. 
> 
>  
> 
> Kudo/comment if you'd like, it's always great encouragement. 
> 
> Say hi on [tumblr](http://raeldaza.tumblr.com) if you so want.


End file.
